


One lost, one found.

by Ejunkiet



Series: Dragon Age Anthologies [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, F/M, old memories and new beginnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Maker's breath, to have you here with me. I am truly blessed."</i>
</p><p>--<br/>A series of interconnected stories, following the trajectory of the relationship between Inquisitor Lavellan and Cullen Rutherford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the steps of the temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It feels like the end of the world, the earth quaking in violent tremors as impact upon impact makes contact around them, littering the battlefield with shards of rock and flaming debris._
> 
>  
> 
> _(He’s unsurprised later to learn that he was almost correct.)_

When he first sees her, it's as if time stops for a second; his hands shake, and he can’t seem to catch his breath. 

There's no denying that it is the worst possible timing for such a moment; with the breach in the heavens crackling above them, a legion of demons and wraiths scrambling through the tears between this reality and the next, but-

She’s lithe and elven, with hair like the woven white gold chain he wears around his neck, and so terribly familiar, that recognition stabs at him, a jagged blade to the gut.

He'd known a mage like that once; many, many years ago, in a time where things were much simpler, and he didn't have half the scars he had now. 

Magic crackles in the air around her, filling the air with static charge and the sharp, clean taste of ozone. From where he stands, just a scarce few feet away, she's barely more than a diminutive silhouette against the breach; yet as she turns her face to the heavens, she pulls the tattered edges of the veil to a close, as if it took barely any effort at all.

It's a dazzling, terrible display of power, and his ears ring in the aftermath.

\--

It has been years - although it feels like a decade - and yet he can still recall her face as if it were yesterday. Her delicate features, and the bright eyes that had gleamed with laughter as she pursued him - sneaking, poorly - through the Circle halls, a welcome distraction as he carried out his daily patrols.  Eyes that had remained brilliant and fierce all the while she fought in the depths of Kinloch Hold, before her murder, violent and cruel, at the hands of those she had once trusted.

(The maleficarum had delighted in that image, showing him again, and again, until his throat was scraped and raw, and he was at the point of breaking.)

And yet here the elvhen stands, alive and strong, and impossibly whole once again.

His first thought is that the tear in the veil has let souls long dead slip through, leading her to appear before him, a reminder him of his mistakes, his failures. His second is that he’s still dreaming, trapped within the living nightmare of the blood mages thrall -pressing in, scouring for a weakness, any weakness - and his hand tightens around the pommel of his sword, preparing in readiness for the strike against that which strives to break his resolve.

Then she turns, dark eyes gleaming in the sickly light of the breach, and he can see the faint lines of ink that threads across her features, and the illusion breaks. His grip on his sword loosens, returning the blade to its sheath.

This mage is not of the circle but of the Dalish: a charge of the inquisition, implicated in the murder of the Divine.

\--

The differences are obvious, afterwards, of course. Her eyes are dark obsidian, her hair cropped at the nape of the neck, and there's a fluid strength inherent in her movements, a subtle confidence that a circle mage could never hope to possess, let alone fake. It marks her as a warrior, just as much as her stave marks her as a mage.

He pushes past the memories that linger, dark and prickling just behind his eyelids, gathering up his wits as he continues along the crumbling path, struggling to keep his foot on the approach to meet the seeker and her charge.

It feels like the end of the world, the earth quaking in violent tremors as impact upon impact makes contact around them, littering the battlefield with shards of rock and flaming debris.

(He’s unsurprised later to learn that he was almost correct.)

\--

"Commander. We move to approach the temple."

"I see." He inclines his head in a nod, although his eyes never quite leave the Dalish, lingering despite himself. It doesn't take him long to notice that the Dalish does much the same, eyes tracking his movements, reading his body language, her own expression closed and unreadable. "We will be making the final push soon, then."

The twist to the Seeker's expression is pained, although the steel in her jaw never wavers. "What's left of us."

He rubs a hand over his face, letting a long breath escape from his lungs as he acknowledges the statement with a nod, before he makes a gesture towards the elvhen waiting patiently at the Seeker's side.

"And our charge? What does she have to say about all this?"

The response is not the heavy lilt of the seeker, but instead a lighter voice, the elvhen’s features pinched in annoyance as her hand twitches towards her staff, in a way that makes his palm itch for his own blade.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?"

\--

He learns that she is of Lavellan, a tribe found in the northern reaches of the free marches, sent to the conclave as an ambassador for the people. She has also agreed to help them, the Inquisition, for as long as she is able, although she will not elaborate on her reasons. There is not enough time left before they move on to press her further, leading Cullen to rest a hand on Cassandra's shoulder when she pushes that line of questioning.

With Cassandra's attention, Cullen shifts his focus to the Seeker, cataloging the marks in her armor, attempting to estimate the damage she may be hiding. She has seen battle, but has not tired of it; as if guessing his thoughts, she catches his gaze, her jaw tightening as she squares off her shoulders.

"We will be leading the charge to the temple soon. Make sure your people are ready."

She stares him down, expecting a challenge that will never come. He has more faith in her than she gives him credit for, and it's a simple matter to agree, incline his head in a nod.

"We will be shortly, Seeker. We've nearly finished clearing the battlefield of the wounded."

Cassandra's body language relaxes somewhat after that, although she never loses the edge to her stance, her senses trained keenly on the inquisition's ward even as she questions Cullen about the state of the camp. By the time they've gone over troop movements and preliminary plans for their advance, Leliana has joined them, and his people are almost finished with their preparations.

It doesn't take long for the next wave of enemies arrive, and they part ways shortly after that, the half-dead body of one of his soldiers resting against his shoulders as the small team heads towards the path that will take them to the temple entrance. He can feel eyes on him as he lowers his burden and returns to his troops, calling them to arms with a rallying cry as he unsheathes his own sword, but when he turns back to the road, the wandering eyes are gone.

He can’t help the slight feeling of relief at that, although it is accompanied by a surge of guilt.

\--

He thinks on it more, later, and arrives at a final conclusion:

She is not Surana. She doesn’t deserve to be laden with those burdens.


	2. A moment's peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He looks at her as he looked at the Chantry, as her Keeper had spoken reverently of the Creators, the Elvhen of the past._

When they wake together, all is quiet, a moment of peace she has not been able to find in weeks.

The first rays of light that filter through the broken slats in the roof bade a warm welcome to the day as they crest in a golden wave over the ramparts, glistening at the edges of her field of view. They are a mess of entangled limbs and sheets, his skin is sleep-warm against hers, the rise and fall of his chest synchronized with her own as his arm pulls snug around her waist. His face is buried into the crook of her neck, so that his breath tickles her on every exhale.

It's possibly the best morning she can remember since she had left the aravels of her clan behind, trading the wide, open plains of the People, for the small, crowded, citadels that housed the rest of the world.

A small sound of distress her breaks her from her thoughts, before the arm around her waist tightens. There's a moment of caught breath, followed by a stillness before he seems to realize where he is, and the tension in his arm fades. 

She can tell the moment he wakes completely when he lets out a long gust of air; a worn, beleaguered exhale that seam to last for an age. With a breath of a laugh, she twists in his grip to peer at him over her shoulder. His eyes are still closed, but there's the faintest tilt to his lips that gives him away, betrays the smile he is trying to hide. 

Her cheeks burn as she drops her head back onto the pillow, turning her face to hide her own smile in the sheets. "Good morning, Commander."

"Mn."

He curls his body closer, burrowing his face deeper into her hair as he gives a grumble of complaint. When she laughs at him, he turns her over and shuts off her laughter with a kiss.  
  
It’s chaste and sweet, but they’re both panting when they break away. He hooks a leg around her knee, leveraging his weight to bring them closer together as she falls onto her back and returns his warm smile of welcome. He traces reverent fingers along her skin and takes her face in his hands, pressing a final kiss to her lips.

"Good morning."

"I take it you're not a morning person?"

He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle. "That I am not."

"That's surprising."

His lip twists into a smirk, highlighting the scar on his upper lip as he grabs her hand, entwining their fingers together. He presses his lips against her knuckles in a kiss, his eyes closing as he breathes out a long sigh.

"Maker's breath, to have you here with me. I am truly blessed."  
  
When he glances back at her, she sees the reverence in his eyes, the same look that he has when he recites his chants, an unwavering faith whose strength has only grown since he had met her - and she has to look away. The warm feeling that had been lingering in her chest since she had woken up in his bed withers, until it is small and cool, gone.

\--  
  
He looks at her as he looked at the chantry, as her Keeper had spoken reverently of the creators, the elvhen of the past.  
  
She would not be one of them.  
  
When they'd talked at the beginning, before they'd started this, she'd thought that he saw her as she was, and not as the figure that the people took her for. The Herald of Andraste - the champion of a belief system she had no stock in, developed by the people that had massacred and enslaved her own people until they were only a memory of what they once were.  
  
Now -- the small doubts that had lingered at the back of her mind crept back in, a tight bundle of fear that wraps its tendrils around her heart. Had she been mistaken? Had she been so caught up in her own feelings, that she'd been so careless to confuse his admiration - his _adulation_ \- for affection, or even love?  
  
There's a light touch against her hand, and she glances up to see his worried eyes, the creases in his brow and the light crow’s feet around his eyes deepening as his gaze flickers across her features.  
  
"Lavellan..?" He reaches out for her, hand pausing in mid-air as she pulls back from his touch, withdrawing across the bed. "Have I done something to upset you?"  
  
His voice is low, imploring, as his eyes search her features with urgency, desperate to understand, and she takes a breath, tries to find the words to phrase her questions.  
  
"What am I to you?"  
  
There's a pause, then, followed by a tightening around his eyes as he glances down at their shared bed, his free hand clenching in the sheets.  
  
"Have I given you any reason to doubt my feelings towards you?"  
  
"That's not what I asked."  
  
His thumb smoothes along her cheek, before findings it way down to her jaw to tilt her head towards him. Still, she does not meet his gaze, eyes carefully averted to the other side of the room.  
  
"Lavellan..."  
  
"Answer the question."  
  
"You are a great many things. Wait-" He grasps her hand as she tries to move away, runs his fingers through her hair when she turns her face away. " ** _Wait,_** _ma sa'lath_."

\--  
  
His pronunciation is off, but his meaning is clear enough in the tangible emotion that lace the words, and in the way he breathes them in a low whisper of air against her ear, clutching her to him as if he’s afraid he’ll lose her if he lets go. "Wait. You are many things, with titles that carry great weight amongst the people that follow you. That is a truth that can't be denied."  
  
His voice drops to a low murmur as he buries his nose into the small hollow behind her ear, and presses a final, slow kiss to the back of her neck. "But you are also _ma sa'lath_. The only one I -"

His voice wavers for only a moment, before returning with renewed strength and confidence. "Most likely the only one I will ever love and I pray beyond hope that you feel the same."

 _“I do.”_ The words break free, an outburst that despite her training, she can't hold back.

(And despite everything, despite the danger, despite the very probably chance that neither of them will make it out of this alive - she  _doesn't_ want to hold back. She _wants_ this, this little piece of happiness, no matter what comes next.)

He smiles, wide and earnest, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the tension surrounding them dissipates, and she can feel the last of her defences waver and break with his every touch to her skin. He places a careful, ever so delicate soft, open mouthed kisses to her throat, trailing up to mouth the shell of her ear, before he breathes the words once more, _"I love you_."  
  
She turns into him then, wraps her arms tightly around him until their mouths meet again, and their embrace deepens. They don't resurface for many hours, the time filled with hushed moans and whispers of, _"ma emma lath, I love you."_


End file.
